Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/179

Rh

lofty Column! in thine attic grace, And to the stranger-bark that ploughs the deep, Show Freedom's land. Beckon the homeward-bound, Like some good angel, hovering o'er the roof Where sport his little ones, and where with song, Whose oft-repeated burden is his name, The mother lulls to sleep her cradled babe. —Then the rough sailor, battling with the surge, Forgets his toil, and he who wandered long In foreign climes, perchance, with eager eye The glittering pageant, or for regal pomp, Owns the electric chain that binds so strong Unto his native hills, and feels how good To live and die amid his fathers' graves.

But thou,—around thy base, when early Spring Tints the first violet, lure those beauteous groups Who gambol free from care. There should they meet Some ancient soldier leaning on his staff, And lost amid the memories of the past,